For a moment there was hurt in his eyes, but it faded in an instant. Osman hadn’t made it to where he was by showing weakness to anyone. He nodded to the bag slung around Çeda’s shoulder. “Do you have it now?”
Çeda looked around meaningfully. “Don’t you think your estate would be better? Let me come to you after I’ve—”
Osman threw his skewer into the dry dirt and pointed to the alley, and immediately the men at Çeda’s side took her by the arms and forced her there. Again she thought of slipping through their grasp, of fighting if she had to, but somehow this felt right. She’d been lying to Osman for years, and there was a part of her that was sick of it, so she let them take her into the deep shadows of the alley. Once there, Tariq pulled the bag from her shoulder and rummaged through it. He pulled the scroll case out and held it up to Osman as if it were a precious jewel fallen from the heavens.
Osman immediately snatched it from Tariq’s hand and gave it to one of his other men, who secreted it away in a black bag hanging from his belt. Tariq’s nostrils flared, and he looked to Çeda as if he were waiting to see if she were going to make mock of him, but then he bowed to Osman and stepped back, his hand on the pommel of his curved shamshir.
“Leave us,” Osman said.
For a moment, no one moved, as if they couldn’t believe their ears.
“Leave us!”
Tariq jutted his chin back toward the main street and headed there. The other toughs followed, but not before they’d passed knowing looks to one another.
“The scroll case was open,” Osman said.
“It was,” Çeda allowed.
“Who were you going to sell it to?”
“No one. I would never.”
“Never?”
“Never,” she repeated. “I’ve never sold anything of yours. What I’ve opened I did for my own benefit. No one else’s.”
“So you admit it then? That you’ve betrayed me before.”
“Not betrayal, Osman. I did it . . .” She stopped, for the words wouldn’t come. She’d been hiding her purpose from everyone—everyone but Emre—for so long, it was not just difficult to talk about, but nearly impossible.
“For your mother?” Osman asked. He turned his head to his right, toward Tauriyat, which lay hidden beyond a row of three-story buildings. “To do battle against the Kings?”
Çeda stood there, stunned. It felt as if Osman had cracked open her skull to have a look inside.
“Don’t look so shocked, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala. Do you think your mother’s story forgotten? She may have pretended there were none who cared for her—she may even have tried to convince you of the same—but there were those of us who did. Some of us very much.”
The implications played through Çeda’s mind, and one horrifying possibility came to her. “Were you and my mother . . . ?”
Osman was confused, but then he took her meaning and laughed. “No, Çeda, your mother and I were friends only, although she did me favors from time to time, and I her. Which makes your betrayal taste all the more bitter.”
“What do you care if I’ve read a few notes? You hate the Kings as much as I.”
“As you? No. I may find them distasteful, but they provide a certain amount of stability in this ever-changing city.” His jaw worked. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I can’t let this go, Çeda. If I do, and the rest see it, then they begin to take too. And bit by bit the things I’ve built start to crumble.”
Osman waited, perhaps expecting more, but Çeda merely stared at him.
“You’ve nothing else to say? No more words to explain why you’ve done what you’ve done?”
She stood there, silent and unmoving. What else was there to say? He was right. And she had known the risks all along.
“Very well,” he said, and headed toward the end of the alley, where Tariq and the others were waiting. “Nothing broken,” he said and lost himself in the crowd.
The men came for her, Tariq first. She thought of giving them a fight, if only to wipe that grin off Tariq’s face, but if she did they’d only make it last longer.
She didn’t give them clear shots, though. Tariq’s fist came first. Then the others, and soon she was on the ground, and they were kicking her back, her legs, pounding her flesh like hammer blows. One came in so hard against the back of her head the world blossomed in stars and her arms went slack. Someone rolled her onto her back, and then more blows rained down on her face, her sides, her stomach.
When it was done, she heard someone moaning. It took her long moments to realize it was her. She was the one making those pitiful sounds. Well, moan she might, but she wouldn’t cry. She refused to give Tariq the satisfaction. Nor Osman, if he was listening.
But when she looked around, she realized they were gone. For all she knew they’d been gone for hours. She had no idea how long she’d lain there in the alley, others walking by, perhaps wondering what she’d done to deserve such a beating.
She lay there for a long while, working her body gently to see if it was ready to stand. When she was convinced it could, she levered herself up like a newborn kid—all gangly limbs and staggered movements—and made her way back home.
She laughed as she hobbled her way along.
At least this time she didn’t have to pretend to limp.
ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER . . .
WITH THE HEAT OF THE DAY baking the desert dry, Çeda’s mother pulled on the tiller, adjusting the bearing of their skiff to skirt a large dune. The wooden runners hissed as the skiff leaned and then righted itself.
“I saw things in Saliah’s chimes,” Çeda said after a time.
Ahya merely shook her head, a numb look on her face. “What did you see?”
“A rattlewing,” Çeda replied. “A bloody hand. I saw Blade Maidens, and a shaikh.”
“And the ebon blade?”
Çeda paused. This was important to her mother. She could tell by the way she was trying to ignore her. “A King was giving one to me.”
“Describe him.”
Çeda tried, but the image in the vision was already fading. She did as well as she could, describing his garb, his imposing frame, the opulent hall in which he stood. Her mother kept her eyes focused on the horizon. She’d seemed haunted before, but now a look of resignation was stealing over her. Çeda didn’t like that. She didn’t like it at all. “The visions. They’re all connected to one another, aren’t they?”
A trick of the wind made their sail thrum, then it fell silent once more. “Yes,” came Ahya’s numb reply, “but it’s only one possible path, Çeda. Even Saliah can’t always say which aspects of the vision will come true.” She spoke these words with some small amount of hope, but Çeda knew she was only doing so for Çeda’s benefit. She believed in the visions, and she knew enough to interpret them better than Çeda could. Çeda tried to get her to reveal more, especially considering where they were going now and what Ahya meant to do, but her mother would speak no more on the subject, and eventually Çeda fell silent.
They reached Sharakhai well after midday. The city was bustling, as it often was the day after Beht Zha’ir. But Ahya didn’t take Çeda home. Instead, they went straight to Dardzada’s. Ahya forced Çeda to wait outside while Dardzada, wearing a striped thawb of brown and white—and a frown for Çeda—locked the door so he and Ahya could speak in peace. They left Çeda to sit on the dusty ground outside the apothecary shop, watching the people go by, few of whom took note of her sitting there. Night was coming. It wouldn’t be long now, and her mother would be out again. There was something momentous she meant to do and, unlike out in the desert, no amount of rationalizing would diminish the fears Çeda harbored for her mother.
Çeda couldn’t let her go. Not tonight. If she did her mother might do something terrible, something she couldn’t take back. But what could Çeda do?
&n
bsp; Ahya and Dardzada spoke for nearly two hours. The effects of the adichara petal had long since worn off, and Çeda was feeling shaky. Despite the heat, she shivered. Her gut churned, slowly eating away at her insides until she was crying from it.
The passersby took more note of her. “Are you well, child?” some would ask. “Is there ought I can do?”
An ancient woman with a gnarled cane stopped and with great effort knelt and hugged Çeda to her chest. “Have you lost someone, dear one?”
Yes, Çeda thought, I’ve lost my mother. But she told her No, and the woman moved on.
When she could stand it no more, Çeda stole into the apothecary from the rear entrance and listened at Dardzada’s bedroom door, where he and Ahya spoke in low tones.
“Are you sure you wish to do this?” Dardzada was asking. She’d never heard him sound as though he were pleading before—Dardzada was a man more used to barking orders than begging favors—but here he was, sounding as desperate as Çeda felt. “It isn’t too late. I can speak to the Matron. She has the ear of one of the Kings. We could wait a day or two and see.”
“That sounds reckless, and you know it.”
“More reckless than what you’re planning?”
“I won’t jeopardize all we’ve done for a woman we know so little about.”
“She’s been faithful.”
“She was a Blade Maiden. That’s more than enough reason to pull at the tiller and steer well wide of her.” A pause. “It’s getting late. Has the draught steeped enough?”
The sound of clinking came, of glass on glass. “Yes, it’s ready, if you still mean to go through with it.”
“Will I have time to say goodbye to her?”
“Yes, it takes time. Once you leave, repeat the story we agreed upon, and soon it will be your only story.”
A tinkling sound came, then the gurgle of liquid.
A short while later, footsteps came toward the door. Çeda backed away as quickly as she could, but her mother saw her before she could sneak through the front door. “Come,” Ahya snapped at Çeda, apparently both unsurprised and unoffended by Çeda’s guile. When Çeda came close, she crouched until the two of them were staring one another in the eye. A smell followed Ahya—part floral, part fetid—and her eyes were red, but they were also distant, unable to focus, as if she were under the spell of the black lotus. “You’ll stay with Dardzada,” she said.
Çeda was already shaking her head. “Please don’t go, memma.”
Her mother gripped Çeda’s arms and blinked several times, as if she’d had too much araq and was having trouble ordering her thoughts. “Be good for him, Çeda.”
“Memma, no!”
Her mother stood, seemed to wrestle with her own sense of clarity, then focused on the front door, her intent clear on her face. Dardzada emerged from the back room, stalking toward Çeda as Ahya slipped like a ghost toward the door.
She turned and managed to focus her attention on Çeda. With great effort, it seemed, she took two strides toward her, knelt, and took Çeda’s hands in her own. “Be good for him”—she kissed Çeda’s hands—“and remember what I said in the desert.” Then she stood and began walking away.
“No!” Çeda cried. She grabbed her mother’s wrist and tugged, refusing to let go. “Please don’t! Please don’t go!” Her mother was trying to wrest her arm free, though in a strangely listless manner, and then, before Çeda knew what was happening, Ahya raised her arm and slapped her across the face. Çeda staggered back, stunned, and Dardzada grabbed her by the shoulders.
After one pained look at Çeda, Ahya turned and left Dardzada’s home, the bell above the door jingling as the darkness consumed her. Çeda tried to wrest herself free of Dardzada’s grip, but did so only halfheartedly. Her mother wouldn’t listen to her pleas, not when that she was so intent on leaving.
She’ll be all right. She knows what she’s about. But the words were hollow. She would fool herself no longer, not now that her mother was gone.
“Go upstairs,” Dardzada said, shoving her toward the rear of the shop.
Çeda moved numbly to the stairs and took them up to the landing. Along the wall, beneath two windows, now shuttered, was a pallet with a hastily thrown blanket on top. She lay down, faced the wall away from the stairs, and clasped her hands.
Please, Nalamae, guide her. Please, Nalamae, guide her. Please, Nalamae, guide her. She prayed these words over and over, begging the goddess to listen.
Dardzada climbed up the creaking stairs and retired to his room without another word to Çeda. She heard his snoring some time later, but Çeda couldn’t sleep. The night wore on, moment by excruciating moment, Çeda willing the sun to rise, for her mother to return. But the night ignored her pleas, becoming interminably long.
At last the light of the rising sun wove in between the slats of the shuttered windows. She stared at the slanted beams, listening intently for the sound of her mother’s footsteps on the beaten wooden walkway outside Dardzada’s shop; for the rattle of the door opening downstairs, but those sounds never came. Instead she heard the city awakening. The clop of mules and the clatter of cart wheels. The scrape of footsteps as people moved about. The sound of brooms as people swept the nightblown sand from their porches.
And then there came a tick against the shutters above her. It was followed by another. And a third.
“Çeda!” came an urgent whisper.
She got up and opened one shutter carefully, lifting it slightly to prevent it from creaking. Outside in the street below stood Emre, her closest friend and one of the few she’d kept as her mother had moved from place to place every few months. He was barefoot and wore his loose trousers and baggy shirt. The morning was chill, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at him. The cold never seemed to bother him. For a moment, her heart was glad, but then she saw the look on his face.
Emre was nine, a year older than her, but just then he looked like a toddling child, scared of a world he didn’t understand. “Çeda, you have to come.” He looked to his left, toward Tauriyat, the hill in the center of Sharakhai that bore the House of Kings on its curved back.
Çeda wanted to tell him no, that she had to wait for her mother to return. But that look sent her gut to roiling so badly she thought she was going to be sick.
She heard the sound of approaching footsteps but was so lost in worry she didn’t at first understand what it meant. Dardzada was stomping toward her from his bedroom. He pulled at her hair and yanked her away from the window, then pointed at Emre with one fat arm. “Begone, Emre, or I’ll come down there and whip you myself.”
Çeda heard no response. Emre wasn’t afraid of Dardzada, but he wouldn’t provoke him, either, especially not when Çeda would suffer the brunt of his wrath. Çeda watched as Dardzada swung the shutter closed. She had to go. She couldn’t remain here.
By the gods’ sweet breath, the look on Emre’s face . . .
Dardzada would probably take a switch to her backside for it later, but she didn’t care. She darted for the stairs. Dardzada stormed after her and tried to grab her—“Çedamihn, stop!”—but she was too quick. She was down and through the shop and out into the street in moments, and then she and Emre were running together, the two of them glancing behind from time to time. As they reached Highgate Road, Çeda saw Dardzada one more time. He was standing in the street, staring at her with a look of deep regret. And then he was lost from view.
By silent and mutual agreement she and Emre slowed. They couldn’t keep up the mad pace they’d set in the beginning, but they ran as quickly as their lungs and their burning legs would allow. Emre said nothing further. He was clearly scared to. And Çeda didn’t ask, for she was just as scared to know the truth. More scared. She knew something had happened to her mother. She just didn’t know what.
Ahya might have been taken by the Blade Maidens, or by the Kings themselves. P
erhaps she was being held for trial. All of that might explain the strange visions she’d seen in Saliah’s chimes.
But she knew it wasn’t so. If it were, Emre would have already told her.
So she kept running, her strides soon outstripping Emre’s. Her fears built within her, imagining the worst, until they were ready to burst from her throat in an unending cry. And still she was utterly unprepared for the scene that met her.
Tauriyat stood at the center of the city. Twelve palaces were built upon it, all of them interconnected by bridges and tunnels. Collectively they were known as the House of Kings. A towering wall ran around Tauriyat, and into it were built two main entrances: one at the sheltered harbor to the east that held the ships of war, and one to the west that opened into the heart of the city. Emre led her to the westward entrance.
The towering gates were closed, but atop the wall Çeda could see four Blade Maidens. Each wore a black fighting dress with a turban and veil hiding her face. They stood with bright spears in hand, staring not at the great courtyard at the foot of the gates, but out over the city, as if they could see beyond the dawn to the days and the dangers ahead.
“Stop, Çeda,” Emre said when he’d finally caught up to her. “They’ll be watching those who come for her.”
He grabbed her arm, but she shrugged it off. She barely heard his words, for to the right of the gates, along the wall of Tauriyat, stood a gallows, and from it hung one lone form: Ahyanesh Allad’ava. Her mother. She’d been hung from her ankles, naked, her throat cut. Çeda tried to walk toward her, but Emre stopped her again. She stood, numb, but otherwise ignored him.
There were markings on her mother’s hands and feet. No, not markings—cuttings. They had cut ancient runes into her mother’s skin, and upside down, so that those who saw her could read them. Çeda knew what they meant. Her mother had taught her well in letters, if in little else.
Whore, read the cuts on her hands. False witness, said the ones on her feet.
And on her forehead was a sign Çeda had never seen before, a complex design that looked like a fount of water beneath a field of stars.
Twelve Kings in Sharakhai Page 10
